


Safe to Say

by toewsyourheart



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-05 03:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6686917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toewsyourheart/pseuds/toewsyourheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonny knows when Patrick needs it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe to Say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartstrings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/gifts).



Jonny knows when Patrick needs it. 

It’s his responsibility to know, to pick up on the signs. 

Patrick pushes more than usual when he’s itching for it. Pushes and tests Jonny’s patience, poking and prodding and lashing out about anything and everything. There’s this look he’s got, one of quiet, sharp defiance that permeates through his whole being. He’s wound too tightly, extra fidgety and off balance. 

Singularly, those behaviors don’t mean much, just Patrick being Patrick. In tandem, though, building until he’s on the verge of exploding—that’s when Jonny knows. 

Which is why, in the middle of dinner, after Patrick’s just popped off at the mouth about something stupid, a culmination of two full days of frustration, Jonny finishes chewing his bite of steak, calmly sets down his fork and knife, and levels Patrick with steady glare. 

“Patrick,” he says evenly. “Go to our room.” 

Patrick blinks at him. “What? Fuck you, I’m eating.” 

“ _Patrick_ ,” Jonny repeats, voice harder now. “Don’t make me say it again.” 

The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitches just slightly as the atmosphere shifts in the room, and Jonny notes the shiver that runs through him, the way he trembles almost undetectably, and that’s how Jonny knows he got it right. 

Patrick delays for another moment, unyielding, cool blue eyes never leaving Jonny’s. He rarely does what he’s told the first time. 

“Now,” Jonny demands firmly, and Patrick drops his silverware with an unpleasant clang, shoves back from the table, and goes.

 

Jonny waits five minutes before getting up from his chair to follow, grabbing a bottle of water from the refrigerator on the way. 

Time is his greatest ally when they do this. Patrick hates waiting, but he loves when Jonny makes him wait; it’s better for him, the delayed gratification of it all, and it’s Jonny’s job to gauge how long. 

When he walks into their room, Patrick’s on the bed, arms folded over his chest, stripped down to his boxers. He’s sitting upright, leaned against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankle to disguise the bulge of his dick. Sometimes when Jonny comes in, Patrick’s already naked, facedown with his ass in the air, waiting for him. 

The fact that he isn’t like that now tells Jonny he’s got a little more fight in him tonight. 

Patrick’s eyes are burning into Jonny; he can feel them, Patrick willing Jonny to look back, but he doesn’t. Instead, Jonny casually strides to the bathroom to get a washcloth, taking his time soaking it under the hot stream of the sink and wringing it out; he won’t get up again once they’re finished, so he makes sure everything he needs to take care of Patrick is right there within arm’s reach. 

When they’d first started this, Jonny wasn’t as well prepared, and the sound of Patrick’s panicked voice, crying out to him when he’d gone to get some lotion for Patrick’s rope rash, isn’t something Jonny will soon forget. 

He makes those arrangements now. He doesn’t leave Patrick after. 

Back in the bedroom, Jonny goes to the dresser, opening the top drawer and rustling around for lube and Patrick’s favorite leather cuffs: solid black, joined by a thick, gold chain and fastened with buckles to match; they’re satin-lined, so they’re more comfortable, but the leather edges still offer that much-needed bite, if pressed against. Patrick always does. 

Finally, Jonny turns back to the bed and briefly meets Patrick’s heated gaze. His breathing is nearly fucked already, before they’ve even started, chest rising and falling in shaky inhales and exhales. Jonny can hear it, but he doesn’t say anything, not yet, walking over to place the rag and water bottle on the nightstand. Patrick’s eyes never leave him. 

Jonny deposits the lube and cuffs at the foot of the bed, careful not to touch Patrick, and begins to undress, leaving him there to watch. 

Patrick groans, a low sound rumbling from deep in his chest, and Jonny cuts his eyes at him in warning. Patrick keeps his mouth shut, for the time being, working his bottom lip between his teeth.

Jonny moves at an absolute glacial pace after that, carefully refolding each article of clothing as he removes it, even re-balling his socks, and draping them over the chair in the corner of their room, until he’s wearing only his briefs, just like Patrick. 

“Jesus, Jon,” Patrick breathes out, impatient, and Jonny rolls his eyes. 

“You’ll never learn to be quiet, will you?” 

Patrick grins wickedly. “As if you want me to be,” he replies, clenching his hands into fists and curling his toes expectantly, flexing the muscles of his forearms and calves. 

It’s true, Jonny loves to hear that defiant, filthy mouth moan and cry out and talk back, but there’s a protocol in place here, and Jonny’s a stickler for the rules. 

“Your choice,” Jonny shrugs. “Boxers off.” 

Patrick shuffles out of them quickly, as if he’s trying to demonstrate the appropriate speed in which someone should take off their clothes, and tosses them to the floor. Jonny picks them up, makes a show of folding them and placing them with his things on the chair, much to Patrick’s growing frustration. 

Patrick’s still sitting when Jonny turns around, awaiting instruction, the atmosphere tense and electric, anticipatory. His dick is hard between his spread legs, thick and curved toward his belly before he’s even been touched, fingers digging into his thighs. 

Jonny wants to wreck him, and Jonny will wreck him. 

“On your stomach, Patrick,” he orders, and Patrick swallows hard, shifting down and turning over, arms folded beneath the soft pillow under his head. Jonny approaches him, standing beside the bed as he slides firm hands up Patrick’s back to his shoulders. He pulls one arm, then the other down flat by Patrick’s sides and takes the pillow and discards it, Patrick’s cheek against silky sheets now. Jonny digs the heel of his hands into Patrick’s shoulder blades, working the muscles to loosen him up just slightly; the position is demanding, and Jonny would never want him to go into it with no preparation and tweak something. 

Patrick’s squirming after a few seconds of it though, hitching his hips to grind his dick into the mattress, and Jonny pinches the tender skin at the back of his arm. 

“Be still,” he reprimands, and Patrick gets in one last jerk of his hips, because he’s obstinate as hell, then complies. 

Jonny grabs the cuffs, smoothing a gentle hand up Patrick’s thigh and over his ass; that’s how Jonny likes to play, striking that balance between hard and soft, punishing and praising. “Arms behind your back.” 

Patrick brings his hands together behind him, and Jonny brushes his thumb over the veins of Patrick’s inner wrist. The chain that joins the cuffs is adjustable, and Jonny wants it tight enough for Patrick to really feel that burn, so he removes a link before restraining him. 

Jonny’s got Patrick’s right wrist secure before he hears the first of what’s sure to be many objections. 

“Tighter,” he mumbles, and Jonny yanks the buckle beyond the point of too much, leather biting into Patrick’s skin, then loosens it again. 

“Who’s doing this?” Jonny asks rhetorically, moving to cuff his left; they’re sufficiently tight, and Jonny has other plans to make it interesting. The chain’s still got enough slack for Patrick to get some relief in his shoulders, if he needs it, but Jonny wants him to work for that extra ache he likes so much. 

“Cross your wrists, and if they come uncrossed at _any_ point before I let you come,” Jonny stresses, “I stop.” 

“Why don’t you rope ‘em then?” Patrick counters gruffly, and Jonny bends down low, lips almost brushing Patrick’s ear, but not quite. 

“Because I want you to exercise some self-control elsewhere, since you can’t keep your mouth closed,” he answers darkly, then bites the shell of his ear; Patrick hisses and crosses his wrists, and Jonny grips them in one hand, pressing down.

“Just like that,” he approves. “Don’t move them.” 

It’s not much of a challenge now, but later, when Jonny’s fucking him and Patrick’s hanging on by a thread, begging to come, it will be. 

“Knees up, Patrick,” Jonny tells him, and Patrick grunts as he struggles to get his knees under him; his ass is in the air, beautiful, porcelain skin tapering downward over his strong shoulders, his neck and chest, where Patrick’s supporting most of his weight with his arms bound this way. Jonny grabs the lube and settles in behind him, close enough so Patrick can feel the heat of his body looming over him without any actual contact; he won’t know when the touch is coming, but the proximity keeps him on high alert, waiting for it. 

Jonny counts to one hundred twenty in his head, admiring Patrick and watching the way his muscles twitch and contract with nervous anticipation. His eyes have fallen closed, his long lashes fanned gorgeously across his cheeks, and Jonny has to give credit where it’s due: Patrick keeps still and quiet, their combined breathing the only sound to be heard in the room. 

When the two minutes are up, Jonny drops the lube to the bed and grabs two handfuls of Patrick’s ass, kneading his cheeks, parting them reveal his hole, pink and perfect. Jonny wants to put his tongue on it, but that’s against protocol; Patrick doesn’t get his mouth until after. So Jonny drags his thumbs over it instead, dry and rough, and Patrick sucks in a quick breath, and Jonny groans, Patrick’s hole clenching in response. 

Jonny lets go to lube up his fingers, and with little preamble, just a minor, testing press against his rim, Jonny slides one finger in to the third knuckle. 

“Ahh,” Patrick yelps, hands gripping into fists as he accommodates the sudden intrusion; he could’ve taken two, Jonny knows, but he doesn’t want to rush this. It’s important to go slow, make the build-up well worth the payout. 

“Too much for you already?” Jonny asks, and Patrick scoffs, but doesn’t say anything; he knows Jonny will take his finger out if he does. Since he kept quiet, Jonny rewards him by working that finger in and out, steady and sure, stretching at Patrick’s rim before adding another, continuously massaging his cheeks. 

“What’s the safeword, Patrick?” Jonny inquires, because clarifying the safeword before things really get going is always important. 

Patrick scoffs again, more uncooperative than offended. “You know I won’t use it.” 

That’s true, Patrick’s never once safeworded out. Jonny never pushes him that far; he knows what Patrick can handle and what he can’t, but that’s not the fucking point. 

Jonny removes his fingers, reaching with his other hand to fist it in Patrick’s curls and pull until Patrick’s shoulders are nearly off the mattress, bending his neck and back uncomfortably. Patrick moans with the pain, just as Jonny hoped he would. 

“I didn’t ask if you’d use it, did I?” Jonny says coarsely. “I asked, what’s the safeword, Patrick?” 

In the early days of this, Jonny was admittedly uncertain, worried about being too harsh or too rough with him, but he’s long been coached out of that with Patrick’s reassurance, so it’s simple for Jonny to slide into this harder mindset to give him what he needs. 

Patrick wants this. Patrick loves this. 

“Yeahhh, Jonny,” he pants, fucked out and easy for it. “Lemonade.” 

Jonny releases him and pushes three fingers back in Patrick’s ass. “Good, that’s good.” 

“So good,” Patrick echoes quietly, and Jonny starts up with his fingers again, pointedly avoiding Patrick’s prostate for another count to one-twenty. Jonny barely makes it to sixty before Patrick sighs with impatience, waiting for Jonny to press those fingers down where he wants them. 

“You forget where it’s at?” he huffs against the sheets, sweat starting to form between his shoulder blades and on the back of his neck. 

“Hmm,” Jonny grumbles disapprovingly and takes his fingers out again, sitting back on his haunches. 

“Fuck, I’m— _Jonny_ ,” Patrick protests, straining to look over his shoulder to see where Jonny’s gone, careful to keep his wrists together. 

“I can wait here all night, Patrick,” Jonny remarks, matter of fact. “Can you?” 

“Yes,” Patrick lies immediately, then whines, “I mean, no, I’ll be—I’ll be good.” 

“Yeah, Patrick,” Jonny says, working his briefs down his thighs and off to free his dick. “You sure will.” 

Jonny pops open the lube cap, and Patrick ‘mmm’s, a needy, turned on sound, and wiggles his ass back. “You gonna make me, Jon?” 

Jonny doesn’t answer, just slicks up his cock and holds it at the base, shaft gliding along Patrick’s crease, slowly rolling his hips forward and back again. 

“I want it, Jon, please,” Patrick begs, and Jonny spreads his cheeks and lines up, the blunt, red tip pressing at Patrick’s entrance, open and ready. 

“Shhh,” Jonny admonishes softly. “Gonna give it to you.” 

Jonny rubs the head around Patrick’s rim for a count of twenty-five, then slams home in one hard thrust. Patrick cries out, more from surprise than anything, back arching, shifting his face against the sheets, wrists still firmly together. Jonny doesn’t give him much time to adjust before he starts pumping his hips; he knows Patrick likes that rough slide, needs it to scratch that itch. 

Patrick feels so good, hot and tight and perfect around him, clenching down each time Jonny bottoms out. He grips Patrick’s hips, digging his nails into soft flesh, and fucks Patrick in earnest, thighs slapping loudly against his. 

“Harder, Jonny,” Patrick gasps, and Jonny smacks his ass, just once, and squeezes tight, setting a pounding rhythm; he knows he’s nailing Patrick’s prostate on every stroke, based on the sounds alone. Patrick’s garbling unintelligible pleas, repeating Jonny’s name over and over, and Jonny’s just as dizzy with it as Patrick is. Jonny wants him to feel every inch, right now and tomorrow. 

After a moment, Patrick’s jaw goes slack, words tapering off into a long, loud moan as he takes everything Jonny’s got to give, and Jonny knows this is it—this is exactly what Patrick needed: to let everything fall away except for this, except for them. 

“Yeah, Patrick, let it go for me,” Jonny praises, drunk on Patrick surrendering control to him, losing himself this way. The trust he puts in Jonny to give him what he needs is staggering, humbling; it makes Jonny want to be his absolute best for him. Patrick’s still got his wrists together like a champion, and Jonny places his hand over them to hold on as he fucks him, grunting with exertion. He searches deep to find that next level for Patrick, so he can draw this out as long as possible. Patrick must be dying to come, but he won’t, not until Jonny says so. 

“Uhn, uhn, uhn,” Patrick moans, twisting his hand to circle his fingers around Jonny’s wrist, and Jonny squeezes his eyes closed to focus, the tenderness of the gesture, and the presence of mind Patrick found to do it, pushing him toward the edge. 

“Shit, Peeks, you’re perfect,” Jonny mumbles, and Patrick chokes a sob. 

“I—Jonny, I need—” Patrick stutters, muscles taut, fighting to hold the position and absorb Jonny’s thrusts, “—you.” 

“I’m right here, Patrick,” Jonny tells him, emphatically jamming in to the hilt. “Wanna feel you, baby, come for me now.” 

Patrick wails, releasing Jonny’s wrist to let his fall apart after holding out for so long, the chain joining his restraints pulling tight as Patrick strains his neck back and orgasms, breathing rough and labored. Jonny can’t see, but he knows what Patrick looks like when he comes, eyes screwed shut, balls drawn up, the head of his dick angry and red, come spurting out, streaking his chest and sheets.

Jonny fucks him through it, rubbing against Patrick’s prostate to make sure he gets that full stimulation, and after three more thrusts of his hips, Jonny finds his release as well, filling Patrick up, seeing stars as the sensation rocks through him; there’s really nothing better than this, losing himself in Patrick, uncontrolled and desperate for him. 

Jonny can’t afford himself any time to recover once he’s spent, because Patrick needs him; it’s his responsibility, and that thought alone, that need to take care of Patrick, overrides any desire he has to roll over and pass out. 

He pulls out of Patrick’s ass, sparing two seconds to watch his come drip from Patrick’s hole, and reaches for the washcloth on the nightstand. It’s long gone cold at this point, which is a blessing and a curse, because Patrick’s body is overheated, but the temperature differential always gives him a jolt, too. Jonny quickly wipes Patrick’s stomach, moves him out of the wet spot to lay flat on the bed, then gently wipes between his cheeks. Patrick whimpers when Jonny grazes his hole, and he presses a kiss to the small of his back in a silent apology. 

Once clean up is done, Jonny makes quick work of the cuffs, freeing Patrick so his arms fall to his sides. He’s still groaning quietly, letting out these soft moans to accompany the aftershocks rolling through his body. Jonny leans over him, peppering kisses to Patrick’s shoulders and the back of his neck, every patch of skin he can reach. 

“You were so fucking good for me, sweetheart,” he croons. “Do you hurt?” 

Jonny grabs the bottle of lotion from the table and straddles Patrick’s waist before dispensing some into his hands. He rubs them together and moves to massage Patrick’s wrists, then his back and shoulders. His muscles twitch under Jonny’s touch, spent and over-stimulated just like the rest of him, and Jonny works out that tension until they stop, until whatever residual pain Patrick might be feeling has hopefully lessened. 

“You okay, Peeks?” Jonny asks, blanketing Patrick’s body with his own and kissing his cheek, gently brushing his sweaty curls away from his forehead. 

“Mhmm,” Patrick replies weakly, and Jonny shuffles off of him to gather Patrick into his arms, resting against the headboard. Patrick wraps himself around him, body relaxed and pliable, nuzzling his face into Jonny’s neck. Jonny smooths his hands over Patrick’s clammy skin, rubs his shoulders a little more, and kisses his hair, scratches his scalp soothingly. 

“You did so good, baby,” Jonny continues, cupping Patrick’s warm cheek. “Open your eyes, Patrick. I need you to talk to me.”

Jonny always likes to hear some feedback, no matter how mumbled, when they’re finished. If he did something Patrick didn’t like or pushed too hard, Jonny needs to know so he can correct it; Patrick trusts Jonny to take care of him, and sometimes it requires a little constructive criticism to get that done to the best of his ability. 

Patrick blinks his eyes open, a slow easy smile spreading to his face, beautiful and blissed out.

“Wan’ sleep, Jonny,” he murmurs drowsily. “Kiss me g’night.”

Jonny chuckles and presses their lips together, holding steady as Patrick sinks into the kiss, humming contentedly. 

“Good?” Jonny asks, muted and amused. Patrick grins against his mouth. 

“Perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> this is all heartstrings's fault. 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](http://toewsme1988.tumblr.com).


End file.
